They Come thro’ Wootton, too often now,
One, two or sometimes more,
Old men doff their caps or stand straight and salute,
They know the score, their medals shine bright,
Once they too were young and fought the good fight,
Mothers quietly sob for these were all their boys,
Home now, but never again to make any noise!

After the Cortège and people have gone,
A silent voice hangs in the air, how much longer now,
Will this go on?